


All Hands on Deck

by Quilljoy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (arson murder and jaywalk here), Abuse, Bruises, Casual misogyny, Come Eating, Crossdressing, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Deep Throating, Filthy, Gangbang, Humiliation, Loss of Identity, M/M, Ramsay is his own warning, Read at Your Own Risk, Secret Santa, Slapping, Stockholm Syndrome, TERRIBLE TERRIBLE TITLE PUN, Vomiting, Watersports, transphobic language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 09:06:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13245003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilljoy/pseuds/Quilljoy
Summary: ***Thramsay Secret Santa 2018***Gift to the amazing gibilynx!In Winterfell, silence had grown around him and he'd sworn himself to the rustle of tree leaves as he'd sworn himself to the song of the depths.He had a new god to worship now.





	All Hands on Deck

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gibilynx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gibilynx/gifts).



> Sorry for the wait! I hope this makes up for it, :D
> 
> Alas, the timeline in this is messy. I know Ramsay only japes about the dress once Theon is Reekified and back (DoD, c. 36 -- I've reread it for… research purposes), but I wanted to show the identity losing process. Why is it when I get a fun porn prompt I want to get really in depth?? Can I only write porn when not prompted to do so?? 
> 
> Happy 2018!

Fingers sink into his skin, and Ramsay's men drag him out of the kennels and into the courtyard.

Snow has pilled up during the night. Though fresh, the men have already passed through it with their worn boots, with horses and wagons, daily life having started at first light ignoring the dead and dying in Bolton's care. The snow under his naked feet is stained brown with mud and shit. Blood runs down from the butcher's cart. It runs down his legs, too. He misses the warmth from the straw in the kennels, but he doesn't miss the smell at all.

Theon's barely holding himself up. Even if he wanted to, even if the men let him, he doesn't think he'd be capable of walking on his own. Theon doesn't realize it with self pity, but the sort of abstract idea of someone who's just learning to judge his own capabilities, because his bare comfort now depends on it. He's numb. Not the snow's fault. When he closes his eyes, he can inhale the crisp cold air, allowing himself to feel the true weight of his lord's clemency.

His knees hit the ground and something creaks. The rags are the only things he has left to cover himself, so when they're taken away, Theon reaches out, he fights, he struggles until a foot crashes against his nose. It hits him once, twice, thrice the times until his mangled fingers let go. The rags are nothing, they're paper thin and filthy, but they're also the only thing between him and the cold. Theon doesn't know if he wants to keep them because they're his only belongings, or his lordship's gift.

"Don't break it's nose," one of the man pleads, and if there wasn't blood and phlegm clogging his throat Theon would've laughed instead of choking on it.

"Look at it. Do you think honestly think Lord Bolton would care?"

"What were his orders?"

And the man stops, because whatever they were, they clearly didn't include any damage. Theon had stilled after he'd been stomped on, in any case, naked and shivering in the middle of the courtyard, skin somehow dirtier than the ground he'd been tossed over. The snow had melted under the heat of his body. It's strange, he thinks, he didn't believe he'd any left.

"Alright. Go get the bucket."

Theon stills.

He hears the splashing of water before he sees it, some of it dripping to the floor next to his leg and making him flinch. Theon doesn't stare at the men's faces when he does it. At one point, he supposes  
the wonder at his humiliation would cease, and it'd be enough, curiosity and fear prompting him to plead.

The buckets, at least two of them, weight like an executioner's blade above him. More water cascades to the ground. This time, drops land on his leg, making him whimper. It's freezing.

"Lord Bolton wants you clean, freak."

It's the only warning he gets.

In another land, in another time, he'd jumped into saltwater. It'd not been merciless, then, it's violence giving him purpose, the toss and turn of the current pulling him far away from the fists of brothers and the father. He could float and he could swim. Fish bit at his toes until he wiggled them away. If he wanted -- and he'd always wanted -- he could hold his breath and sink, and explore the world down below in search for the mermaids carved into the flesh of drowned ships, hair of seaweed and moss for gowns.

In another land, not quite far back, he'd washed the salt away from his skin fervently with scalding water.  There were no oceans anymore. From the depths of earth, the water sprouted in vapors of warmth, which clouded his view and made him believe he could be as soft skinned as the ones around him. He'd rubbed the grime from between his fingers and over his scalp, he'd perfumed himself, he'd grown to love the scent of snow and mist as he'd loved the sea air. Silence had grown around him and he'd sworn himself to the rustle of tree leaves as he'd sworn himself to the song of the depths.

He'd a new god to worship now. He'd just forgotten himself. That why Ramsay is doing this, he thinks, as the shock worms its way under his bones and his eyes grow larger still.

Ramsay is a master of give and take -- he's his master -- and he knows exactly how to give into Theon's silly pleads.

"Don't you die yet."

One of the Bastard's boys takes a sponge to the clump where his skin had rot and the flies have started to buzz around.

"I told you, he wants you clean."

Ramsay Bolton is truly merciful, Theon manages to think, before his eyes roll back into his head. The water doesn't allow him to pass out, but his conscience flutters back and forth, and Theon hears laughing. It's only when the men stare down at him he realizes he's the one chuckling. It feels like years since he's demanded -- then asked, then finally begged, until snot had ran down his chin and lips and he didn't think to beg anymore -- a bath.

He had been far too stupid, before. When he'd asked for things. Like he'd any right, before his lord had chased that mad thought out of his head with a pair of pliers. He thought he'd learnt better. But Ramsay remembered how Theon Greyjoy had been, even if Reek is forcing himself to forget.

***

Somewhere else, in another life, Theon Greyjoy had loved velvet.

He's content for the little he covers himself with, nowadays. Straw, sometimes a cleaning cloth. Fur, only from the bitches, when they snuggle up close. It's a far cry from when his hair ran down in silky locks over his shoulders and he'd rings for all of his fingers. (Considering he's got barely any fingers left, that count should still be accurate.) Now, when the comb runs over his hair, it comes out in chunks. The serving girl cries every time it happens, as if it were not inevitable were she competent enough. She brings the shears to his head all the same.

"If you tremble, you'll cut out more," he whispers.

"Lord Ramsay will be so angry."

Aye, he will. But he says nothing, watching as his hair falls down to his lap, running his hand above his shoulders and feeling the emptiness there. He's being trimmed like a dog -- best not to dwell on the idea, least Ramsay clip his ears. His lordship has a strange way of looking at him and seeing the depth of his soul. Know all his thoughts.

What is left of his hair reaches his throat. It's ashen white. The girl holds a mirror to him, bony fingers to her hands, and they tremble further and nearly drop the damn thing when Theon whimpers. Lord Bolton's men have held him down and scrubbed him so hard his skin had become pink where it was not red or scarred. The serving girl had come for him with shears and nearly cut herself with her tremors, imploring him she meant no harm, to please let her fix him up, too, to best please their lord.

This must not be him. He looks almost human.

"Please." The girl holds the mirror out to him. Theon takes it.

His eyes are sunken, but he can see; for the first time in ages, his eyelashes are not caked together with dirt, albeit one of his eyes is swollen purple. Some of the hair covers it, yet Theon has the presence of mind to swipe it away, careful, as if he's to be lashed for it, but nothing happens. He touches the bump in his nose where he's been hit. It hurts, but nothing else. Nothing more. Swiping his tongue over his chapped lips brings color to them, and though he cannot stop himself from poking and prodding where it's been split, or where the teeth had been broken away from his gums, the girl gives him mint leaves to chew on and he nearly cries, not because they sting, but because he feels himself again, and there's a part of him that breaks just from remembering.

Of course, there's no way his lordship leaves it at that.

Theon Greyjoy had loved velvet. When the girl comes back, she comes with a bundle on her scrawny arms. It weights her down and she has to take tentative steps, but she hobbles close enough for him to see the pink and white, unfurling in a flurry of ribbons.

It's actually a simple dress, though he knows, through the fur lining, it's meant for nobility. The underclothing has elaborate ruffled sleeves and is laced on the top of the breast. Theon is sitting still, staring at the fabric. Unmoving. The girl lays the pink overdress over the white one, and he's still not getting it, mind drawing blank at the design, with drawstring the color of red over the bodice, a teardrop -- no, a blood drop -- on each end.

"I won't look," she promises, cowering on the corner of the room.

The door slams open and Theon drops the mirror. It shatters, just as the girl's bone shatters when she's shoved aside, falling limp on the floor as Theon jumps back. He can't control his shaking. It's a reaction to the sound of boots stomping, so even if Theon doesn't see his lordship, just his men, he's down on the ground in an instant.  

"Stand up! Lord Bolton hasn't gone through all of the trouble of forcing you to bathe for you to dirty yourself all over."

"I think he's going to piss himself." A cruel snicker. "Such a dog."

"No, not a dog. Well, not anymore," and the man glances to the dress.

The pain doesn't register in Theon's head until he's looking at his hands, fingers finding purchase in mirror shards, which the men tear from his hands after yanking him upwards. Their hands feel monstrous against his wrists. Theon remember having meat on then, once, but they're just skin and bones now, and they bruise easily under the pressure.

"No need for modesty now. We've already seen you."

He knows it -- Theon knows it. He'd been proud of his body. Long legs with tight calf muscles and a tanned glow to them. Hair on his chest; like a man. A nice, thick cock, which had Kyra gagging for more.

He fights them off so hard his arm nearly gets ripped out of its socket, pinned to the side of his head.  He gets slapped once, twice, and the hand has rings in it, which doesn't stop him from spitting at the man. The Bastard boy hits him until the pain splits his head in two and he doesn't have to remember anymore. He lays bonelessly on the floor, and when his head tilts back, he sees the girl, unconscious  from the pain. Poor thing. Weak thing. The men drag him up by his armpits and force his hands away from between his legs, where he'd hidden them, and up.

The chemise slides over his arms, covering the scar tissue that now cover his entire skin. Just like that. A magic trick, he thinks, now you see it, now you don't. All the hurt, the pain gone in a blink of an eye. If only he were given gloves.

It smells good, too, like it's just been washed. Warm and soft, not rough like anything that has touched him in the past few days, and were he not being held, he'd have clung to it. Inhaled its scent. He'd have cried, too, or maybe he'd just sleep, but the pinching and holding of his body remember him he's not safe -- not yet.

The heavier fabric comes next, wrapping around him like a cloak, but not quite. It's beautiful. The fur reminds him of his companions at the kennel, but it's fox fur, it's rich, it's more than he's worth.

"You stupid oaf," the man curses, but not at him. "Now that bloody cunt is passed out. Lord Ramsay will be enraged if this doesn't go right. Do you know how to tie a dress?"

"I've spent more time cutting them off of unsuspecting ladies." Snickers.

"Well, a lady this is not." Hands roll him over. His breath is cut short when the fabric is tightened around him, one feet landing on the small of his back, pushing him against the ground, as the man pulls on the string to shape his body, as if it were unknown to him there is little to shape. It's not even about the absence of hips or breasts. He's just gone on without eating for so long. "I'm not sure it's a man either."

Shame should be threatening to overthrow him, except he can only be grateful for the clothes, after the cold. His hand and feet had to be thawed. He'd thought he'd lose even more fingers.

Theon wraps himself in it, he wears it, like it's the most precious clothes he's ever worn. Except -- it's nothing Theon would've ever willingly dress. Would he? Someone had called him a whore for all the jewelry he clad himself with. The fine garments. So perhaps Theon the whore would've worn this, too, and thinking throughly about it he cannot fathom why someone would not, because it makes him sigh, delirious from the warmth.

It's not until he catches the sight of himself in the broken mirror he realizes he's been had.

***

There's a banquet waiting for him.

No; more correctly, there's a banquet waiting for Ramsay. He's the one who's arriving late, having to be pulled by two of Ramsay's me only because his feet doesn't work correctly in the shoes he's been given. Theon can barely walk at all, most of the days. With his feet compressed in boots too small for them, with a pointed heel supporting most of his weight, he stumbles through the door and falls face first on the floor.

His lordship doesn't laugh. Theon would rather him be laughing.

It ought to be funny, right? He can see the pointed look of the men, gathered around the table. Their lips are smacked together as if they're suppressing the humor the awkward figure in a gown should be driving out of them. Theon has seen his combed hair. He's seen the dress, which ought to be hugging his figure but just hangs weirdly from too thin shoulders, threatening to fall and expose the whipping marks on his back and chest. It's too rich for him. It's better than any of the overdresses the servant girls are using, yet the men all stop to look at him, anyway, ugly and scarred, though all of the girls serving Ramsay are ugly and scarred, so maybe there isn't much of a difference. They're girls, his mind provides. They have something you don't. But then, everyone else has something he doesn't. He's lacking in a variety of departments.

Ramsay brings his cup to his wormy lips and cleans his throat with wine, reminding Theon it's him he should be paying attention to.

"There comes the guest of honor."

Theon crawls to his side and Ramsay's smile grows larger. When he opens his mouth, Theon is hit with the overpowering smell of wine and grease, which he can't remember feeling disgust over anymore. When Ramsay smiles, Theon's eyes grow bigger, and he hungers.

"Who- who is it?" he asks, eager for his lordship's approval. The scraps in his hand would suffice. He stares so hard at Ramsay's enormous hand his lordship ends up laughing, at least, and like Theon knows, laughing is good, happy is good; happy makes Ramsay extend his fingers so Theon can lap at the fat that's running down. He takes each one of them carefully into his mouth, sucking to savor the taste, and it makes Ramsay so unbelievably pleased he doesn't even press his thumb against the hole where Theon's teeth ought to be. There's no cruelty, but for when Ramsay takes them away, tutting, as the loud slurping sounds fade away from the dining room.

The Bastard's boys are all silent. There isn't even the clinking of silverware or glass. Ramsay's finger slip out of his lips with a pop, and Theon's hit with the realization he's been fastened like a pig for slaughter and delivered right into the butcher's lap. It's just coincidence the bonds are silk and cotton. They hold him in place all the same, taking the breath out of him while cinching his waist, restricting the movements of his legs under multiple heavy layers.

It's just coincidence.

Please, be a coincidence.

"Why don't you tell me?" Ramsay asks, not without kindness.

Theon's eyes dart around the chamber. Panic is slowly trickling in, so he looks up to his lordship in search of comfort -- Ramsay's hand is on his hair, then on his shoulder, and Theon could cry because, for once, he isn't squeezing.

"Me?" He tries, softly.

"And who are you?"

Theon looks down at his clothes. Somewhere in his mind he's aware they're not the rags Ramsay has clad him with, so it must mean his lordship wants him to be someone else for the night. Yet the answer doesn't come to his lips easily. He's been given two names, and which one should fit?

The velvet is soft beneath his fingers. Rich; like a prince's.

"Theon?"

He makes a decision -- it just happens to be the wrong one. Theon the whore, Theon, who likes all that's rich in the world. Ramsay's touch, gentle like the gown he's been put on, turns vicious on his hair. Oh, Theon thinks. The bathing, the combing, it'd all be for naught if Ramsay rips it out of his head. He's sure this is what is going to happen when Ramsay, inhaling so deeply he steals Theon's air, lets him go.

"I forgive you."

"What?" Theon says, although it sounds more like a "w-aaahh", the end of the word lost into a silent plea. Ramsay Bolton smiles at him, lips curling upwards. Every time he does it, the strip of flesh over the bridge of his nose grows blotchy red. He'd got dimples. He's got a full set of sharp yellow teeth.

"I forgive you for being unappreciative and stupid. It isn't a dog's fault if he's lame. Of course, it has to be put down, then. Do you want to be put down, Reek?"

"No?" Theon feels this must be the right answer, which does not explain the twitch in his lord's upper lip.

(He's not very good at the game. He still thinks he's a prince. That's why Ramsay is doing this. To make him forget. To make him be good.)

When Ramsay exhales, patiently, his entire, massive body shakes with it.

"Reek."

There's a fraction of second before Theon blinks. He's been staring at Ramsay this entire time, and he thinks he's being good, pliant, down at the floor where he's been put and with his throat on display. But if Theon's crap at forgetting, he's just as bad at remembering.

Ramsay's thumb, which moments ago had been happily nested between Theon's lips, runs down his chin, until it rests under his collarbone, above his breast. He fingers the decorative lattice before his hand slips under the crevice the gown has left open in the front, where Theon has nothing to fill it, and squeezes his nipple, eliciting from him a groan that isn't from pain, not yet. Just fear.

"No matter what you're wearing. Silk, rags, or nothing at all."

In an attempt to make his lordship happy, Theon nods vigorously, repeating the word Ramsay has said before, "Reek", the only one that matters, so he doesn't forget next.

"Now, do you want you supper, Reek?"

"Please," he keeps on nodding, because it makes Ramsay content when he does. Theon doesn't care that Ramsay has taken to pinch him above the dress, because it doesn't hurt at all. It isn't cruel. Just. Greedy. Like Ramsay wants a handful of him. He's taken so much already, Theon thinks there's nothing else left to give. He's grown dangerously comfortable in his lordship's knees, the touches becoming more unforgiving, but-- not bad, he thinks -- so he doesn't mind when he's brought to Ramsay's lap, even if his foul, delicious breath is haggard, bruising Theon's face, and it's only when his skirts are astray he feels how hard his lordship is.

If the fear was slowly creeping in before, now it seizes Theon by the throat. He stills, then Ramsay secures him by the chin and makes him look around. Theon wants to believe each one of Ramsay's men is uncomfortable as he is, but the ones who are fake it very, very well. Almost as well as Theon himself. But he cannot hide from some of the stares. There is disgust, and the disgust tightens his stomach and nearly draws the bile out of his throat. But in between the sickness they feel there's want, too, as if the perversion of it has enhanced the palate like pepper to food. No animal likes the burn to their throats, he remembers, just humans. Are they humans or animals? What is he?

When he squirms in Ramsay's lap, Ramsay forces him against the table. All the kindness has seeped away from him, and he pushes Theon's face against the surface, knocking the wine and a plate astray. Theon's so close to the food he could touch it with the tip of his tongue. Ramsay throws it to the side before he can.

"Open up," he says, pushing one finger inside his mouth, as he crawls behind him. Theon's ass is in the air, skirts pushed up to his hips. The finger in his throat gag him until he's obedient enough. "Alright, who goes first? I don't think Reek's eaten for days." Ramsay gives Theon's stomach a boisterous pat. "There's a lot to fill up."

With his index finger and thumb pressed against Theon's cheeks, Ramsay forces his tongue out. He's terrified. How easily could he fall for this? He should've known. Except there's nothing to do now but wait, each one of Ramsay's men considering the weight of giving in to Ramsay's invitation too fast, or too slow that it'd cause him offense. Theon waits with his tongue out, drooling like one of the bitches, panting in quiet terror until one of the man approaches — not the one who's held him down for dressing up, he thinks, the one who said he'd liked ripping dresses. Theon's under the impression that, if he rips his gown, Ramsay will rip off his throat. So he doesn't. Not in much of a haste and not much looking at Theon's face either, though it's rather better now than it was before the bath, the man pulls the cock out of his trousers and feeds it slowly to Theon, until he can fit it all inside.

It's... Strange. The smell of it is rancid, and just the feeling of it lodging in his throat should make him gag, but they've been having a feast and the smell of cooked meat overpowers everything. He's drooling as much as for the scent of food as for the cock in his throat. If not for the threat of Ramsay, finding purchase behind him and grinding their hips together, maybe he'd try running away. With his master close by tugging at his clothes, he forces his own jaw open and tries his best not to puke.

"How does it feel, Damon? Not many teeth left to scratch, are there?"

Damon grunts in response. His cock, which had been half hard probably to Theon's humiliating appearance, begins to fill up quickly. It's disgusting, but it could as well be another knife, pressed up against another finger. He shudders at the thought and opens his mouth a little more.

"Look how nice Reek is being for you."

Ramsay tilts his head back. The position strains his neck, but it must have been terribly pleasant for Damon, who groans and, now edged on and with the permission of his lord, begins to thrust in earnest. He shoves his cock as far inside as Theon as he possibly can, cutting all air, all reason from his head, to the point that Theon dares to struggle — and even the struggle is good.

"Fuck," Damon Dance-for-me curses under his breath. Theon's small burst of willfulness makes him hotter than the lips wrapped around his cock. That's how he liked them, then, unwilling. That's why Ramsay doesn't punish his Reek, just lift his skirts further and — and— with a cock thrusting in and out of his throat, dressed like a maiden, Theon shouldn't be any more embarrassed, but it's Ramsay's exposing his bare flesh to the room that does it. He blushes violently and drives his body away, but Ramsay tears resistance out of him with a sound slap to his ass.

Damon's come tastes disgusting. Even more so is the fact that Theon swallows it without thinking, as if he's actually hungry, wanting for all that. Worst of all is that they notice. Him, not just holding still, but sucking.

Damon Dance-for-me exhales as if he's just finished a jar of cold ale. It makes Theon feel like a thing. Not an animal, not a creature, neither Theon nor Reek. Just some whore Bolton's man could use to shoot his cum into.

He wishes he'd disappear, but the show has edged the men on and Skinner pushes his friend aside. Theon is acutely aware of Ramsay's own fingers in him, grabbing at his ass and searching and prodding. He dips one finger in grease and Theon hates to think of it as a small mercy. He hates the fact that, would Skinner let go of his face, he'd be kissing Ramsay's boots and thanking him for the generosity. Skinner opens his mouth with both thumbs spreading it open, and fucks into it so carelessly Theon coughs and spits and throws up acrid bile over the table, just as Skinner comes, so he doesn't swallow it this time and instead it gets on his face, over his hair.

"Look at my Reek," Ramsay coos at him, taking advantage of the distraction to slip two fingers inside Theon. "Sloppy, sloppy. Be careful next time not to let it go to waste."

Theon can only moan in response.

"Wasting nourishment is a terrible offense. So many people going hungry nowadays. You don't want to be punished for it, do you, Reek?"

"No," he cries, shaking his head for emphatical denial. Maybe Ramsay won't hurt him, then. Maybe he will be sweet. "I'll be good."

Ramsay replies by taking his fingers off and spitting in his hole. Theon clenches, suddenly afraid, but why should he be? This is embarrassing. He doesn't want to be there. But his lordship is being so good to him. There aren't any important bits being cut off, he thinks, so he shouldn't mind the maiden dress or the men lining up to use his waiting mouth. Not even when Ben Bones sinks his hand in the top of his gown and pulls it down like a leash to fuck his throat more easily. Not even when he comes over his chest and the pretty dress, and instead of punishing his man Ramsay punishes him, by offering up his ass as well. His cunt, Ramsay calls it lovingly, all the time, edging his men to getting on top of Theon and  fucking him there. And when Theon tries getting away Ramsay calls him a shy maid, then a whore, until Theon doesn't know what he should be called anymore and responds to anything — to touches, to a cock nudged in his direction until Theon grabs or sucks on it, to curled fists. The men hit him, too, even when he's good and gives them no reason to. Everything and nothing hurts. The dress is ripped off his shoulders until his pale nipples are exposed out to the air. Ramsay mounts him like a hound, not minding the sloppy seconds, or thirds, or- he doesn't even thinks he can keep count anymore. There's just Ramsay in him. Even if the Bastard's boys are close by. Even if there's cum drying on his cheek and the corner of his mouth. Even if, once Ramsay finishes, with a grunt, he tosses Theon to the side, and slaps him for good measure in the face, giving in to his savage nature. He's just fucked him like a beast. Now he spits on him and hits his face until Theon's cheeks are red and raw, and he's sobbing in the soft fabric of the dress, which Ramsay doesn't allow him to use to wipe the filth away from his body. He marks his territory, too. Once Theon thinks there's nothing left to be done to him, a stream of hot piss hits him in the face, until Ramsay's thick cock softens and there's nothing anymore in it.

"Do you remember who you are now?"

Theon doesn't want to shake his head no, but his entire body is rocking softly from one side to another, and he wraps his arms around himself. Little comfort to be found in it, he thinks grimly. Ramsay tosses him unceremoniously to the floor and couches next to his bruised and abused body.

"You have to try harder. Here, let me help you. Did you like to be bathed, and your fancy clothing, dressing up your hair? Didn't you like supper?" Ramsay's voice is sweeter now.

He stills, because he doesn't know how Ramsay wants him to answer.

"I appreciate your g-generosity, my lord…"

"The honest answer, Reek."

A whisper, now.

"… no."

It appeases Ramsay. He's getting better -- he will get better. He has to. For his master.

"Theon Greyjoy has loved all those things. He's been rumored to have been a good dancer. A great smile, I've heard! Good for the ladies. Do you have a beautiful smile, Reek? Do you think you're good with the ladies?"

His face grows warmer. He doesn't know why. His fingers don't hurt. Other parts of him do, but they don't quite as badly. His lord has been kind. And merciful. He's given him warm clothes, even if he cannot appreciate him for it.

"No, m'lord."

"You stink." Spit flies from Ramsay's lips when he speaks. It lands on his face, adding to the filth on top of him. He doesn't cower away from it. He just moans; a deep, throaty groan torn from his chest. Tears and snot stain his face. "So who are you again?"

"I'm Reek," Reek says. "It rhymes with weak."

 


End file.
